


Traces

by DrHu



Category: Radiant Historia
Genre: F/M, Female Reader, One Shot, Post canon, Radiant Historia spoilers, Reader-Insert, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 16:11:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15198470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrHu/pseuds/DrHu
Summary: Scars have stories behind them, and you think about the ones that Stocke's tell.





	Traces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DragonsInkwell (Lafrenze)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lafrenze/gifts).



> For Rae (I say that as if anything Radiant Historia-related content I make won't in part be for her because this fandom is so small ;_;)

It’s not that you forget Stocke used to be a soldier, but it sneaks up on you every now and then.

You catch him once by accident, freshly bathed and half-dressed. The lack of a shirt is what initially knocks you off guard--it’s rare to see Stocke in such a vulnerable position--but something else draws your attention.

Pale, uneven blemishes mark the surface of Stocke’s skin. Even under the dim lighting, it’s easy to pick out the scars scattered across his upper body. Some you can barely make out because they’re so small, while others jump out at you immediately. Though scars are nothing new to you, the sheer number of them twists your stomach.   

  
The sight surprises you enough that you don’t realize you’ve been staring for several seconds. Stocke too is frozen in place, his eyes gauging you in a mysterious way. Realizing where you are, you snap back to reality and babble out an apology.

He waves it away, seemingly unperturbed. You leave, not seeing the way he pulls down his sleeves and adjusts his collar to cover up as much skin as he can.

The first time you realize something is off is when you find him injured from a small accident. There’s a gash along his arm, not all that deep but enough to tear through cloth and leave him bleeding. Hastily you gather your first aid and pull him aside.

“It’s not deep but I need to get this out of the way to clean it up,” you tell him, rolling up his sleeve.

Much to your surprise, he pulls away from you, cradling his arm to himself. “It’s fine. I can take care of it myself.”

“What--Stocke, let me at least look at it.”

“It’s fine. Go back to what you were doing. I won’t be long.”

Before you could protest again, he walks away, disappearing before you can even think to go after him.  

It happens again later, after he gets in a fight with some bandits. He sustains heavier injuries this time, not enough to kill but severe enough to be sent to Sonja.

Worried, you hurry to her clinic. Stocke sits with a calm expression as Sonja dabs away at him, not a single flinch to be had even as the antiseptic touches his open wounds. But you can’t help but notice his face tightening a little when you step in.

“Stocke? Are you alright? How bad is it?”

Before anyone answers you, he takes a nearby blanket and drapes it over himself, obscuring most of his body. This irritates Sonja until he whispers something to her. Reluctant, she lets it slide.

Turning to you, she says, “He’s alright. Typical Stocke, defending some merchants from an attack. Nothing severe, but I do want to keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t get an infection.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Sonja’s eyes very briefly dart to Stocke, who shakes his head almost imperceptibly. She smiles apologetically to you, saying she has everything handled. The silent exchange confuses you. Open wounds never bothered you, and the two of them know that. You remember the time when Stocke turned you away from treating his arm. What is he trying to do?

While Sonja busies herself with getting her patient wrapped up, you can only loiter about the clinic. You refuse to leave, intent on at least watching over Stocke as he receives treatment. Beyond his initial reaction, he doesn’t seem to be bothered by your presence.

It’s quiet between you two as you wait. You stare almost accusingly at the blanket around his shoulders, as if trying to pick answers from its threads with your eyes alone. You think about the way he completely obscures himself from you, the way he kept his sleeve down the last time you tried to check on him.

You remember that day when you caught him bare by accident, and your stomach churns with unease. Stocke doesn’t speak of his time in the war often, and you rarely feel inclined to ask. But your imagination gets away from you. This was the result of a bandit attack; what kind of punishment did a full blown war heap onto the former SI agent?

You think of sharpened metal burying itself into Stocke’s side. Heavy weapons blunt themselves against his body, splintering his bones. Fire and death follow him wherever he goes, yet he gets up, again and again, because that’s just the way he is.

It’s enough to send a small shiver down your back. It’s been years since the conflict with Granorg ended, and Vainqueur is still healing from the ravages of war and the desertification that mysteriously stopped not too long after. In due time, the continent might forget the years of bloodshed that razed its lands. But you think of Stocke, and how he will likely carry his own scars for the rest of his life. You wonder if this bothers him. Could it be shame that drives him to cover up around you? He’s impossible to read, and you don’t know how to bring it up with him.

Sitting there in the clinic, you find no immediate answers. It’s a situation that will have to be left for another day. You join Stocke on his cot, cautiously taking a seat next to him and watching for a reaction. To your surprise, he leans into you and nestles his head into the curve of your shoulder.

“Not going home? There’s nothing to see,” he says.

“You’re here. That’s all the reason I need.”

Even though he doesn’t say anything, you’re sure you can hear him smiling. Planting a kiss on his head, you wrap an arm around him.

“Do your best to not get hurt, alright? I know you’re impossible to kill but I still want you to be careful.”

“Alright.”

You finally get a chance to talk with him one hot summer day, though you don’t realize it at first. Alistel is sweltering, its thaumatech usage at full max as its citizens seal themselves indoors where the air is cool. But for you, stuck working in the basement of the main castle where ventilation is poor, the stuffiness is almost unbearable.

Stocke keeps you company, worried about you in the heat, but at this rate you wonder if he should be worrying more about himself. Working alone has its benefits: you’ve stripped down as much as you can since it’s your private workspace, uniform be damned. But Stocke is stubborn, refusing to change out of the long, heavy clothing he has on.

“You’re going to kill yourself from heatstroke,” you scold. “For the love of all that is holy, Stocke, just looking at you is making me faint.”

“I’m fine,” he mutters. And at first glance, you might have believed him. But even the legendary young lion of Alistel has his limits: he’s a bit flushed, a light sheen of sweat coating his forehead, and you can just barely make out a slight look of discomfort. He’s doing his best not to move, and you can imagine how painful the weight of his clothes in this heat must be.

“If you’re not going to change, can you at least leave and… I don’t know, get us something to drink or some ice? I’d rather not have your dried up corpse in my lab, please and thank you.”

Before he can answer, there’s a knock on your door. Too irritated from the high temperature, you only shout that it’s open. The door creaks as Rosch’s head peaks around the frame.

“I, uh, heard something about a corpse?” he says, chagrined. “Do you two need a moment?”

“No. Actually, this is perfect timing. _Please_ take him out, he looks like he’ll fall over any moment.”

With Stocke too preoccupied with the heat to protest, you manage to chorale him through the door, practically shoving him out. Even Rosch grimaces when he sees his clothing.

“He refuses to change, even though I know it’s killing him,” you complain. “Rosch, please get him something cold to drink before Sonja has to come hollering at me about why he’s in the infirmary with hyperthermia or something.”

Frowning, Rosch nods. He hands you what he came by to drop off, and without another word you slam the door shut. You’ve already broken out in a sweat from the exertion, but at least you’ve saved Stocke from a slow, very dry death.

Before you can return to your work, you hear a low murmur of voices from outside the door. Rosch and Stocke have not yet left and seem to be having a quick conversation.

“I can’t believe you’re wearing that when it’s so warm,” Rosch bemoans. “Who are you trying to impress? You can’t beat summer with stubbornness.”

There’s some shuffling, and then you hear another groan.

“Are you _serious,_ Stocke? No wonder you looked like you were at death’s door. Why didn’t you just wear those in first place? Why layer all that on top?”

“Didn’t want to scare her off, and I didn’t want to bring a bag,” Stocke confesses.

“Scare _who_ off? From what?”

You don’t hear the response, but you feel like you don’t need to.

“What in the world makes you think she’s scared of some scars? Sonja hardly says a thing about mine.”

“Sure, but she’s _not_ Sonja. She stayed away from the bulk of the war, Rosch,” Stocke explains. “You didn’t see her face the first time she saw them. She’s never been part of battle like we have, and I hate the thought of making her more uncomfortable since she’s with someone like me. If I have to put up with a bit more heat to do that, so be it.”

“...You sure it’s the scars that bother her though?”

“I don’t know what else it could be.”

Rosch sighs. “Uh, you should probably talk with her about this. At the very least, it’s not worth squeezing out every drop of water in your body. Come on, let’s get you cooled off, or else Sonja will get on _my_ case too.”

Their footsteps grow distant, and you’re left staring at the door with a bittersweet taste in your mouth.

* * *

When you return home from work, late into the night, the lights are already off. You yawn as you prepare for bed, grateful for the brief reprieve from the heat granted by the night. As you walk into your bedroom, you’re greeted by the sight of Stocke sleeping soundly in bed, sporting only a pair of shorts. With the air conditioning off, it seems he eventually gave in to the heat.

Even with the windows covered, bits of moonlight dimly illuminate the room. Quiet as can be, you amble to his sleeping form, doing nothing but hover over him for several moments. You realize you’ve never seen him without a shirt after that time you caught him after his bath, and the sight is just as fresh as it was the first time.

Up close, you see the extent of his scars, right down to the faint scratches that roughen his hands. Stocke’s scars run back to front; you see the remnants of what must have been blades, of magic that charred away his skin, of ammunition that buried itself into his body. Before you lay the clearest evidence of Stocke’s life as a soldier, of the conflict he threw himself into over and over for a cause he believed in. Staring at him, you wonder again how he could find the strength and courage to keep getting up.

As gently as you can, you lay down next to him, disregarding the warm air. Your fingertips sweep the front of his torso as you follow the discolored skin, speculating the story behind each blemish. Your tracings culminate in the largest scar you can find on him, and it’s enough for your breath to catch. It’s an ugly looking thing, jagged and rough on a patch of skin right over his heart. You shiver. This is the one that looks the deadliest out of them all. A blow that left something like this behind couldn’t possibly be survived, and yet…

Your partner shifts under your touch, and suddenly you’re face to face with Stocke’s blue-gray gaze.

“...Sorry, did I wake you?”

Bleary-eyed, he blinks a few times before shaking his head. Stocke adjusts himself to give you more room on the bed.

“No, you’re fine.”  

An awkward silence falls upon the two of you as you struggle to think of what to say. You can feel his eyes on you again, and you wonder if he’s judging your reaction again, like the first time. But tonight, there will no misunderstandings.

“Stocke? Can I ask you something?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you...not like it when I see your scars?”

He has to think for a moment before answering. “It’s not that I don’t like it. I just...thought you didn’t like seeing them.”

“Why? Because you think they scare me?”

“Don’t they?”

You shake your head. “The scars don’t upset me. It’s more… how I think you got them.”

You let it sink in for a bit. Stocke mulls over this confession, and in that time your hand reaches down and slips into his.

“I scare myself more often, thinking about what you must have went through during the war,” you tell him. “I just think of how much you must have been hurt, and how unfair that is to you.”

“War isn’t fair to anyone, love.”

“You’re right, but… You’re a good man, Stocke. You have a kind soul. I just...can’t imagine what it must have been like for you. I just hate the thought of you suffering, I guess. You don’t deserve it.”

He has a hand under your chin, his thumb outlining the shape of your lips. Stocke’s eyes are intense even in the dark as he takes in your words, but there is a feeling of gratitude in his touch.     

“You don’t have to worry about that. It’s in the past. I’m not bothered by it.”

“I just...hope you know that I don’t really care that you were a soldier and that you had to get your hands dirty. I just want you to be okay. And happy.”

Eyes soft, he leans in and gives you a kiss. “I get it. Thank you.”

It’s only a few words, but you know he understands. You rest a hand over Stocke’s heart, feeling it beat steadily under your palm. It’s the most reassuring feeling in the world, proof that he is alive and here with you. The scars tell a past riddled with strife, but they are also evidence of a survivor, one who lived to tell his tale. In that, you feel grateful towards them.

“Does it still hurt?” you ask, referring to the large, rough patch of skin on his chest.

He smiles as he looks at you. “Not with you here, no.”

Satisfied, you turn over onto your back, finally settling in for some proper sleep. You playfully nudge Stocke with your leg.

“Look, don’t get me wrong, I like sleeping next to you. But can you move over a bit for tonight? It’s hot as hell, and you’re a damn furnace.”

He laughs and acquiesces. You almost miss the weight as he rolls away from you. You throw a thin blanket over him before curling onto your side of the bed, closing your eyes as you await sleep. Just before you fall under, you feel the warm touch of someone’s lips pressing into your cheek, and you smile.

“Good night, Stocke.”

“Good night, love.”

**Author's Note:**

> I would die for Stocke. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated!


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